


like sinking ships

by yesterday



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood Kink, Dark Stiles, Gore, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Murder Husbands, Sheriff Stilinski Dies (Off Screen), Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 18:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13172679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday/pseuds/yesterday
Summary: It was quiet in the dead stifled heat of night. Southern temperatures and humidity meant no respite even at this hour, and Stiles’ shirt stuck to his back. His arms were sticky. Sweat defeated his eyelashes and dripped into his eyes, stinging. He pulled up the hem of his shirt and wiped at his forehead, and caught Peter looking. Peter smiled at him, something hungry and like the lash of a big cat’s tail before it pounced in it. Then Stiles shivered for entirely different reasons.





	like sinking ships

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cupofteaonarainymorning](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cupofteaonarainymorning).



> Please heed the warnings and tags. There are graphic descriptions of murder in this, blood play, and sex in questionable places.
> 
> This is for cupofteaonarainymorning on [tumblr](http://cupofteaonarainymorning.tumblr.com/). Happy Murderous Holidays, I guess. :P

The breeze tugged at Stiles’ hair and stung his cheeks. He was halfway out the car window, forearm pressed to the cool metal exterior, palm flat. His reflection was a dark blob in the side view mirror. Stiles pushed at it until he couldn’t see himself. The Pacific Coast Highway ran beside him, the ocean ablaze. It hurt to look at. Stiles stared at all that water and sun bouncing off of it, eyes smarting. He blinked, and the tears were acidic. Stiles made it worse by rubbing them. Salt water— he couldn’t get away from it. 

But he could get away from one thing. A place. 

Beacon Hills was hours behind him by now. He left almost everything he had behind. The good, the bad, the old, and what he knew.

“I’m not turning the car around if you fall out, Stiles.” 

Well. Not everything. Stiles twisted around and glanced over his shoulder. “Sure you wouldn’t. Keep telling yourself you wouldn’t miss me.” 

Peter snorted from behind the wheel. He said, almost tenderly, “Will you miss them?” 

Stiles didn’t have to ask who. He folded himself back on the window frame, wind roaring in his ears and drowning out his heartbeat. “We’re not going away forever.” 

There was a soft huff, and the rev of the engine into higher speeds. No clanking of gears or _click click click_ of an old car working overtime. This car wasn’t his Jeep. One more thing left behind. Goodbye, good ol’ trusty Jeep, goodbye friends, family, and home. It was something he read once: material objects weighed you down. But now that Stiles was bereft of them, he was adrift. 

Moving,

moving,

moving on.

He didn’t know where he would end up now, but at least he wasn’t alone. Peter had a darkness in his own heart to match Stiles’, and a gaping lack where everyone he held dear should be. Misery loved company, and all that.

Except he wasn’t miserable with Peter. The opposite. He wouldn’t drift at sea forever with Peter anchoring him. Peter was too possessive to let him go, and Stiles was grateful for that. 

The hand at the nape of his neck was heavy and implacable. It steered him back within the confines of the car, and he went willingly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It was quiet in the dead stifled heat of night. Southern temperatures and humidity meant no respite even at this hour, and Stiles’ shirt stuck to his back. His arms were sticky. Sweat defeated his eyelashes and dripped into his eyes, stinging. He pulled up the hem of his shirt and wiped at his forehead, and caught Peter looking. Peter smiled at him, something hungry and like the lash of a big cat’s tail before it pounced in it. Then Stiles shivered for entirely different reasons. 

The grass was knee high, and the wheat sprouting at the ends skimmed the very tips of Stiles’ fingers every so often. Peter was hard on his heels, hand light on the small of his back. 

Up ahead, the farmhouse loomed, bone white under the moonlight, the black shingles of the peaked roof blending in against the sky. A single light shone in the living room window, made gauzy by the blinds drawn over it. No one awake at this hour. 

The dog in the yard roused, chain uncoiling behind it like a glistening silver snake. Peter flashed his eyes at it, and it whined, ears going flat against its head, tail sweeping low and tucked between its legs. 

Aside from the dog and the lock on the front door, there wasn’t any real security. Stiles was almost disappointed, but hey. It just went to show that no matter how safe you thought you were, all of that was an illusion that could come crashing down at any time. 

Like it did three months ago for him. The rogue hunters didn’t care that his dad was human, not when they noticed he was protecting the supernatural, and he hadn’t even been doing that because of what they were, but because they were kids, scared and trying to hide in the preserve. They killed him just the same while Stiles was hundreds of miles away at school. It wasn’t fair. 

But now he was here, the darkness that bloomed in his heart upon death unfurling its petals. His morals had always been flexible— his D&D alignment was definitely chaotic something— and the only thing that had been holding him back for the longest time was his dad. Without him, well. Stiles didn’t have any reason to hold back anymore. 

“Are you ready?” Peter murmured. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said. 

Surprise was on their side. Between him and Peter, they caught all four of the hunters sleeping in their beds, literally. They dragged them out into the yard— okay, Peter did most of the heavy lifting. Which was a good thing, because the hunters were sluggish and heavy limbed from the special mix of poison Stiles had dosed their takeout with earlier that evening, and Stiles was never much for heavy lifting. 

They were starting to stir, struggling against the thick rope wound around them, wrapping them together like a neat little present for Stiles, hands bound at their backs with zip ties. Shouts filled the air.

Stiles crouched in front of the ringleader. “Hey,” he said. “Remember me?” He didn’t wait for an answer, ignored the stream of curses and continued, “Or maybe you don’t. But you might remember my dad. Sheriff Stilinski, from Beacon Hills?”

A spark of recognition flared, then those eyes went cold. Stiles lifted the corners of his lips. “Yeah, I thought so. You probably know what’s going to happen next. You should, since you’re hunters. There’s always going to be something bigger and badder.” 

His trusty red hoodie met a terrible fate a couple years back, and he never got around to replacing it. But the cotton of his t-shirt was the same red, the thin weave starting to stick to him. In his hand, the handle of the knife warmed from his body heat. Peter had raised an eyebrow when he saw it, and asked if he wouldn’t prefer a gun. 

Stiles said no. A gun was impersonal; a knife wasn’t. And this was personal. 

“You’re just a kid,” the man sneered, the twist of his lips and mouth under the moonlight warped in shadow. “You think you’ve got what it takes to kill someone?” 

And Stiles had to throw his head back, silent laughter shaking his frame. He laughed and laughed, because they didn’t know half of it. They never did. But hey, that was good for him. His advantage. 

Behind him, Peter shifted. He squeezed the back of Stiles’ neck, and Stiles closed his eyes, Peter’s grip grounding. 

“Yeah, actually, I do. But I’m not going to just kill you. That isn’t good enough. So here’s the deal: I’m going to let you guys go. You can try and run, but you won’t get far. Still, doesn’t hurt to try, right?” 

“Fuck you,” one of them spat. 

“I’ll pass, thanks,” Stiles said. He sliced through the rope holding the hunters together— a couple of them had already gotten loose from the zip ties, but it wasn’t a big deal. Peter and him already patted them down for any extra weapons earlier. They scrambled back from him, wary. A little thrill ran through Stiles, and this time, his smile stretched from ear to ear. 

Giddiness bubbled in his veins. It was the same but not, circumstances considering. Was this how Peter felt? Right before every kill, before he sunk his claws into the throats of those responsible for the deaths of his family? This twist of vindication and the purr of blood soon to be sated. 

“What are you guys waiting for, a countdown?” Stiles said. His words broke the spell, and the hunters fled, splitting off into three groups. A couple of them headed straight for the trees, the ringleader ran for the house, and the last two were foolhardy, going for Stiles.

He was kind of expecting that. Peter growled, and beat him to the one, slamming him down on the ground. Stiles ducked the wild blow from the other hunter and stepped forward. The knife slid right past skin and muscle, lodging deep in the hunter’s stomach. Stiles exhaled, a shuddery thing, eyes heavy lidded. He pushed up, and the blood gushed warm and slick over his hands. The stagnant air caught the thick meaty scent of guts spilling loose, and didn’t let go. The hunter slumped over Stiles, head on his shoulder, gurgling weakling. His hands scrabbled at Stiles without purchase, and Stiles twisted the knife round and around before yanking it out. 

At the field’s perimeter, the barrier rose, black melting into grey into translucence, like they were trapped in a scorched fishbowl. 

One— no, two down, because Peter dropped the second corpse next to the first with a flourish, blood shining on his claws— and three to go. 

Stiles crushed the other two with a curl of his bloodstained fingers into his palm, the slippery slide of it almost as satisfying as watching the hunters choke and their bodies crumple under the weight of his magic, limbs twisting awry. Stifled yells and the gentle crunch of bones, a bite down to the sweet marrow.

It tasted just as good. 

The final hunter was pressed to the very side of the barrier closest to the house, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. His face was drawn tight. 

“He’s terrified,” Peter purred against Stiles’ ear. “I can hear it in his heart.” 

“Well, he should be,” Stiles said, flicking the blood off of his knife. Peter grabbed him by the waist, and Stiles curved into it, grinding his ass against the hard-on hidden behind Peter’s jeans, reveling in the growl. 

“You liked that, big bad?” he asked. “Watching me kill?” 

“You’re magnificent every time,” Peter replied, nosing the soft skin behind Stiles’ ear. 

Stiles paused, turning to kiss Peter, a hard, fierce thing full of claim. Together they converged on the hunter. 

He fought, of course. They always did. But a human, hunter or not, wasn’t any match for a werewolf’s strength without weapons or wolfsbane or electricity backing them. Not that Stiles needed Peter to hold the hunter down when the magic was soaring in his veins, but Peter liked to do it. And he wanted to make sure Stiles could devote every bit of his attention to the hunter, he told Stiles. It was the only time Peter would ever let Stiles get away with paying attention to someone more than him. He was kind of an attention whore that way. 

Stiles wanted it to hurt. Should’ve brought his bat along, honestly. A good, old fashioned bludgeoning was therapy of its own making. But the knife was a good compromise. 

“Sorry isn’t going to cut it,” he told the hunter. “You think sorry is going to bring my dad back? Come on.”

“And this will?” 

“No. I know it won’t. But I’m pretty sure it’ll make me feel better, so hey. That’s what counts.” 

“For what it’s worth, it does help,” Peter said.

The hunter started to struggle again, and Peter’s claws cut deep into his biceps. Stiles’ knife followed. 

He started off methodical and precise. Stiles learned a few tricks over the years. How to make it hurt, how to make it last. He carved into the hunter like a Thanksgiving turkey or Christmas roast, pinning him down under his weight with Peter’s help. 

“The fingertips,” Peter would suggest. “They’re much more sensitive than you think.” Or, “underneath his nails.” 

Stiles would oblige, and Peter’s breath would hitch. 

But after a while, the anger and hurt took over, and there was no finesse in how he split the hunter open in wild slashes, body jerking underneath his. Stiles leaned over him and swung, again and again and again. Blood coated him like a second skin, and the harsh exhale of his own breathing. 

His hand was cramped when he dropped the knife. He stumbled up and off the body, and Peter caught him, all solid bulk. 

Stiles clutched at him, finding Peter’s mouth blindly. He kissed him like he was drowning. 

“You’re getting blood all over me,” Peter complained in between breaths. 

“Shut up, you like it,” Stiles mumbled, grinding against Peter’s thigh, and Peter was laughing and bringing Stiles’ bloody fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean. 

When he raised his gaze, his eyes were glittering. He sank down to his knees in the tall grass in front of Stiles, yanking his jeans off his hips. His hands left red streaked on the white canvas of Stiles’ thighs, and Stiles’s first whimper was muffled. The summer heat bore down on them, Stiles’ skin slick from blood and sweat and humidity. Peter’s hair, too, when Stiles ran his fingers through it and tugged. 

The body laid mere feet away, eyes wide and (un)seeing; witness to how Stiles cried out as Peter sucked him off, hips jerking, trying to shove deeper into Peter’s mouth. Peter let him— always did— like he’d eat Stiles up if Stiles would just let him, fingertips bruising his hips, overwriting the fading yellow shadows with fresh red imprints. 

Stiles came with his head bowed over Peter, every inch of him trembling and straining to fly apart at the seams. He smeared the blood spatter from earlier across Peter’s cheek, and listened to the heavy exhale of Peter catching his breath. 

“I hate the south,” Stiles complained, trying to twist out of his shirt. It was sticking to him again. 

Peter made a noise of amusement, pushing Stiles down. He sliced the shirt down the front, leaving it hanging in tatters around Stiles. “We can go north next. But first... “ 

“Gonna eat me up?” Stiles said, mouth curling up into a smirk. 

“With pleasure,” Peter said. He touched Stiles endlessly. The blood had soaked through the t-shirt, and smudges of it were all over Stiles. Peter was making a mess, but he usually did, like he couldn’t get enough of seeing Stiles messy and stained. It was exhilarating, he told Stiles once, the picture Stiles made when he killed. 

Stiles didn’t have to be a wolf to tell how much of a turn-on it was for Peter. He was greedy for the attention and the heavy consideration of Peter’s eyes on him. Only him. 

And his weight bearing down on Stiles, keeping Stiles right where he belonged. Stiles reached for Peter, and Peter met him. 

They fucked right there in the field, the soft cry of the cicadas around them drowned out by the filthy murmur of Peter’s words against his ear, asking him if he’d like it if he were opened up next time with just blood and spit, because they were practically rolling in it now. And Stiles gasped, nails digging into the broad stretch of Peter’s shoulders. When he turned his head, he met the dead man’s eyes. 

It didn’t bother him. Dead men couldn’t hurt him, and Stiles had made sure he was deader than a doornail. He did that. The thrill of it tingled. Or maybe that was from Peter carving him open implacably with his cock, or both. Stiles arched under Peter, the sweat gathering at the back of his knees, at the join of skin where they met. 

He bit down on the junction of Peter’s shoulder and neck when he felt Peter stutter to a stop, cock twitching inside him. His howl echoed through the air, and everything went silent all at once. 

Stiles exhaled.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They washed up in the tiled shower of the farmhouse, the water just on the wrong side of hot and sluicing over them. Peter cleaned Stiles off, washing the blood and sweat and cum off of him, everything swirling down the drain. He brushed his mouth against every bruise and scrape left behind, tasting skin clean under his lips. 

Clean up was never as much fun as the action, but between him and Stiles, they made quick work of it. The bodies were piled up in a messy heap in the middle of the trampled grass. Stiles set them ablaze, Peter at his back. The lick and crackle of flames didn’t bother him, not when Stiles had it in hand. 

When they drove away, the fire was orange and red in the rear view mirror, burning in a perfect circle. It would keep going until there was nothing left to fuel it, all ashes to ashes. 

Peter stroked Stiles’ thigh, and Stiles laced his fingers through his hand, lounging in the reclined seat. Lines smoothed from his face. 

The air conditioning hummed. Stiles fiddled with the vents, directing the cool flow right at him. “I know it won’t bring him back.” His voice hitched, but he plowed on. “Revenge gets a bad rap, now that I think about it.”

“It isn’t for the dead, not really,” Peter said. 

“It’s for the people left behind, you mean,” Stiles said, a dry little smile on his face. 

Peter wanted to kiss it. He nodded instead, and asked, “Do you feel better?”

The pyre in the field vanished when they rounded a curve. Stiles was dressed in a fresh set of clothing, but there was blood under his nails. The knife was somewhere in the trunk, along with the rest of their things. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “Yeah, I do.” 

“Good,” Peter said. He knew it wouldn’t last— it never did— but that wasn’t a problem. When Stiles got restless again, got that same look in his eyes mirrored in Peter’s own, when he started to wind up into tangled knots, Peter would give him what he needed. They would do this all over again, as many times as it took. 

They pulled onto the highway; Stiles was predictable. The gentle rocking of the car lulled him into a doze, then true sleep. 

His hand clung to Peter’s even unconscious, and Peter didn’t let go.


End file.
